'My darling thinks I'm a stranger': The haunting testimony of a man whose wife has Alzheimer's

For the past 11 years, George Russell has lovingly cared for his wife Enid, who has Alzheimer's disease.

Having vowed she will remain at the family home, George, now 74, talks movingly to CLARE CAMPBELL about the profound loneliness and hardship of life with a dementia sufferer.

The couple have a daughter, Alison Jayne, 39, who lives in West Yorkshire.

George says:

Every evening I sit down with my wife Enid to watch television together. I look across the room at her; she's still beautiful; she looks and sounds exactly like the woman I fell in love with more than 50 years ago.

But when Enid looks back at me and smiles, her eyes are empty. She doesn't recognise me, and all love and affection has gone too. Her illness has robbed her of all but the most primitive emotions; she is now like a child who needs constant comfort and reassurance, without having the slightest idea who I am.

Recently, someone at the day care centre she attends asked her about her husband and daughter, and she replied: 'Oh no, I don't have any family. I've never been married.'

Heartfelt testimony: George Russell talks about life with his wife Enid, who suffers from Alzheimer's

Since Enid's diagnosis when she was 61, I have slowly been losing her, day by day - a drawn-out bereavement that is breaking my heart. We still share a double bed, but I dare not cuddle her in case she gets scared that a 'strange' man is touching her.

Sometimes I feel I can't stand the loneliness of living with someone who doesn't even know who I am any more. I ask myself if we might not both be happier if I put my wife into full-time care. It's something so many people - social workers and family - suggest I'll have to do quite soon.

But then just as I finally start to despair, Enid suddenly comes back to me, as she did just last week, pointing to a photo of our old family dog, Trixie, talking about her as if she remembered every detail of our life together. For a few brief moments, the real Enid is in the room with me again, making even the thought of putting her into a home seem monstrous.

Yet more and more I find myself wondering how long I can keep up the physical and emotional stamina required in looking after a fully grown adult with the needs of a child. She constantly wanders around the house at night, has to be bathed and dressed, needs me to take her to the toilet several times a night, and is increasingly unsteady on her feet.

What makes it so hard is that over the past few years she's started treating me more and more like a stranger. Although I tried to convince myself Enid still knew who I was, I was forced to admit the truth to myself the day she told a friend that she thought I was 'someone who worked at the day care centre'.

Cherished memory: George Russell and his wife Enid at a party in the 1960s

When Enid wants to speak to me, she comes and stands at the door of the lounge, believing it be be some kind of office.

Sometimes I think I could cope with all that if only Enid would, even occasionally, remember who I am. But instead she just talks to herself until I feel I will go mad if I have to listen to her for another minute. I have to leave the room for a while just to calm down.

Still loving but a lonely life

George and Enid on their honeymoon in Bridlington in 1956

Some nights I long for the conversation of another rational adult, someone who can understand and listen to me as well. But then, straight away, I feel guilty and annoyed with myself for letting us both down.

I do still love Enid, very much. It's just that this life we have together is now so hard - for both of us.

If it were not for having to care for Enid, there is so much I would still like to do, like travelling round the world before I die.

Enid and I used to talk about our plans for the future before she became ill. Now I can't allow myself to think about them any more, in case I become resentful.

I don't allow myself to cry, although I often feel like doing so. But often, as I am dressing Enid in the morning, or sometimes while she's asleep at night, I try to think back to how we first met.

I'd just returned from two years' National Service with the British Army in Japan. The first time I ever saw her Enid was at a dance. I noticed she had lovely thick auburn hair, and a beautiful smile.

We married two years later and started trying for a family. Enid has always adored small children, so we were naturally very upset when, after several years, she had not become pregnant and we resigned ourselves to being childless.

Instead, we decided to train as husband-and-wife childcare officers, working in different children's homes.

We'd only just been accepted for this course when Enid started to feel unwell. To our astonishment, we discovered that after 14 years of marriage we were to become parents.

Our daughter, Alison Jayne, was born in November 1969. Now, Enid not only had her own daughter to fuss over, but was also able to look after lots of other people's children as well. She was a highly intelligent, capable and caring wife, making all her own clothes and keeping our home spotless.

A history of memory loss

It was after I retired at 60, and we were making plans to visit parts of the world we'd never been to before, that I first noticed that Enid was behaving oddly.

At first we used to joke about it when she started forgetting what she'd gone upstairs for - the sort of thing we all do as we get older. But even then, some instinct told me that there was something more seriously wrong.

Occasionally I would notice Enid staring vacantly into space. Or she'd insist on catching the bus, saying that she didn't feel safe driving any more. It seemed entirely out of character.

Eventually I insisted we went to our GP, who referred Enid to a specialist. I will never forget sitting in the consultant's office and hearing the words: 'I'm sorry, Mr Russell, your wife is suffering from Alzheimer's disease.'

Happy memory: George and Enid with their daughter Alison at their Golden Wedding in 2006

Neither Enid nor I had ever even heard of the illness, and we were both in such a state of shock that we just got up and left without finding out what this was going to mean for us as a family.

It was suggested we contact the Alzheimer's Society. They were brilliant - helpful not only in terms of explaining how the disease affects its victims, but also putting us in contact with groups where relatives of sufferers could meet and talk.

Enid was put on Aricept, which improved her condition greatly. For the next eight years we were able to lead a relatively normal life, including making two trips to Japan to visit friends I had not seen for almost 40 years.

Although Enid was not exactly her old self, she did manage to enjoy these holidays. Meeting her for the first time, a stranger might not even have known there was anything wrong with her.

During this period of remission, Enid also managed to take on a part-time job at a créche, which she really loved.

As always, Enid appeared calm, kind and happy, although her ability to perform simple tasks such as making toast or boiling a kettle was by now beginning to be seriously affected. She also started needing my help to dress.

Determined to get as much enjoyment as we could from the time we had left together, my daughter helped me to plan a huge Golden Wedding anniversary party for us in September 2006, to which we invited all our friends. Enid looked really beautiful that night in a silver-grey two-piece designer suit I bought for her.

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But in the two years since then, not even Aricept has been able to prevent this cruel disease from taking my wife away from me. Now Enid no longer knows where we live and often pleads 'Take me home!' when she gets up in the night. So far she has never tried to leave the house, although I have to watch her constantly just in case she does.

Sometimes Enid gets rapidly worse over the course of a couple of weeks, losing words more quickly, getting less physically able, or more confused. Then, suddenly, it slows right down so that I almost start to hope the deterioration might have stopped.

Happier times: But for Enid there is no escape from the deterioration of her brain

But, in my heart, I know that's not possible. Enid's brain is slowly being destroyed by the disease, and ultimately death is the only escape. Fate has condemned us to go through this living death together. I care for Enid in the way a mother would look after a disabled child - dressing, feeding and taking her to the toilet.

A year ago, I reached the point when I simply could not cope with her at home full-time, so she now goes to a day care centre, Laurence House near Bradford, from 9.30am until 3.30pm each day, as well as for respite care once every six weeks. This enables me to have a seven-day break from looking after her and to relax and build up my strength for her return. Alison also takes her mother to stay with her sometimes.

The remainder of the time, I have to be with her more or less constantly just in case she falls or hurts herself. Realistically, I don't know how much longer I can care for Enid at home. Although I'm very independent and strong for my age, Alzheimer's takes you over body, heart and soul.

Often at night I feel incredibly lonely, wishing I could have a life of my own, but feeling guilty for even having the thought. I miss having someone to talk to, to share my worries with.

But for now I feel I must preserve my wife's dignity for as long as I can - not because I believe it is undignified for those who live full-time at the home, but because I don't yet believe that Enid is completely lost to me.